


toys (unbroken)

by psychamonia



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dead People, Gun Violence, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV Second Person, kinda- it's not bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychamonia/pseuds/psychamonia
Summary: Most of the time, you love him loudly. Everyone stands and takes notice. Nothing gets in your way. But now: it’s quiet. Gentle. Just the two of you, alone.---second person means that Dream is 'you' and George is 'him/your boy.'tw for vaguely described character death
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 53





	toys (unbroken)

**Author's Note:**

> the title is in reference to "Love Poem" by John Frederick Nims, and the piece contains a small allusion to it. this work may be read as a continuation of my older piece "my axe," but was originally written to stand alone. 
> 
> **repeated tw: vaguely described character death**

He’s so close, so warm in your arms. You cradle him like he’s the whole world and maybe (definitely) more. Laying in the cold dew of the grass, your fingers threaded through his hair, his head resting heavy and trusting on your chest. You swear you can feel your heartbeat resonating right back to you, beating in both of your chests, tying your rib cages together like a ribbon. (You don’t know what would happen if he left you. If he pulled back, if the ribbon pulled taut, if it tore, pulling your bones out with it.)

The night is old, and you’re both young, and the stars are light-years away, but still- somehow, with God or love or both- just close enough to touch. You think they would feel like his hand in yours. All that soft light beaming between your fingers, warming your palm, stroking up and down the joints. You think you would hide them ( _him_ ) away, like Prometheus with his coal-filled fennel stick, harboring the gift that allowed all of humanity to live. (To burn.)

Around you, the noise of the world fades, the sirens and blaring horns of the city disappearing into this moment, this tiny greenspace, tucked away from the gaze of time and space, clocks and the solar system. The darkness is your salvation, your own secret place, your pocket of beauty in the apathy. You close your eyes to it, focus on the weight of his body against yours, but can’t quite be satisfied. Your limbs feel like a prison, corporeality a curse; if you were two sparks of light, no physicality would come between you. You could be one. 

But even damp, his hair is soft, and it clings to your fingers when you run them through it. No, you couldn’t be sparks, you decide. You would miss this too much. This is a memory to treasure. To _savor._

His eyes are closed, peaceful, the edges of his mouth still and unmoving where they curve against your chest. You duck your head to land a kiss on his forehead, adoring in the way his head tilts slightly at the contact. Mind spilling over with silent want, you run your other hand up his side, bracing under his armpit to lift him further up your body, settling his head into the corner of your neck. His lips press into your skin and you smile: a quiet, shy thing born of simple pleasures. 

Most of the time, you love him loudly. Everyone stands and takes notice. Nothing gets in your way. But now: it’s quiet. Gentle. Just the two of you, alone. 

Shifting your nose into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, you breathe him in. He smells like the earth, like his deodorant (aloe and sage), and like something deeper- something that’s never been there before but that you love as surely as the familiar. 

You stick your tongue out, lick a stripe up his neck. Sweat and the ‘something deeper’ clings to your tongue, and you pull it back into your mouth, tracing it along the back of your teeth as you think. Metallic. Salty. 

A shout from across the greenspace pulls your attention, and a surge of resentment growls in your chest. As you sit up, his head lolls to one side, his body tilting in your lap. You catch him with one arm and roughly pull his head back onto your shoulder, palm landing in the damp (sticky) patch on his head. 

The man is dashing towards you. You sigh and pat your boy’s chin, pinky slipping over the hole just beneath it. “Looks like our quiet time is over.” 

You lift the gun. Pull the trigger. The man falls, but has no lover to catch him. 

Lowering the weapon, you settle back onto the grass, lifting your boy with a hand in his hair. You hold him a few inches from your face, just close enough to see the gaping mouth, the half-shut of his eyes. No more fluttering eyelashes. No more quick, sarcastic smiles. No more frowning, distrustful lines. 

You leave a kiss on each of his eyelids.

The sirens are louder. Certainly. The stuffed bear (poor Teddy, head blown clean off in the blast) wasn’t much use the second time. Not that you even tried. 

He’s so warm. Growing colder. You cradle him like he’s your whole world, and nothing more.


End file.
